


Bring Me Heartache

by That_stupid_girl



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: But Queenie Goldstein is Wonderful, Gen, Honestly Credence is a Bit of a Mess, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Modern AU, also some slurs (actually just one multiple times), credence still needs a hug, i guess, the whole shebang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:36:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8907502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_stupid_girl/pseuds/That_stupid_girl
Summary: Everything would be fine if Credence could just stop thinking when Queenie was around, and also all the other times he exists. orThe one where Credence is exactly as fucked up as you'd expect and the Goldsteins are literal goddesses.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I fucking love Queenie Goldstein.
> 
> 2\. This is set in the now-ish time because I'm lazy.
> 
> 3\. It's late and this is sort of mess and sort of way too long and not really how I wanted it to end, but I give up.  
> 3.5. Wow! What a half-assed title! But again, love Queenie Goldstein so why not grab a cheesy line from the actress's most famous song?

Credence isn’t good at talking to people. He hadn’t known what to say when he’d evaporated back to the church, which is barely standing, cold and hard but _solid_ , at least, and found Modesty huddled in the front corner, torn gloves and all. She’d looked both scared and happy to see him, even though even then she sort of knew what he’d done.

He hadn’t known what to say when the nice woman, the auror, he remembered, found them hours later. Credence could tell she almost started crying; she didn’t seem like a woman that cried much and it had confused him, made him feel bad.

He hadn’t known what to say when they, or Miss Goldstein, really, the brunette one, found Chastity, almost dead and so cold under the collapsed staircase. Credence, all itchy wrists and twitching fingers, felt like disappearing all over again and he only wanted to apologize, so much, and thank Mr. Scamander for fixing her. But he hadn’t, because that would have made everyone angry, so he kept his mouth shut and his fists clenched and hoped the other Miss Goldstein wasn’t listening to his thoughts. Because people can do that, apparently, with their magic, because magic exists.

And he doesn’t know what to say now, when the Miss Goldsteins stand in front of him and tell him that he and his sisters are going to need some clothes and bed sheets, never mind actual _beds_ , if they’re going to be staying with them or Mr. Scamander or whomever. Credence thinks they must be joking, at first, because they’ve been so nice to him and his sisters, and while his sisters deserve it (after all that he’s done), he doesn’t. Ma never spent money on them, anyway; they can do without. His sisters shouldn’t have to, but they can have his stuff when there’s not enough. He’s going to be a better brother this time. (He shouldn’t even be here; he should have gotten hurt instead of them. It’s all his fault.)

Except then the blonde Miss Goldstein says, “Well of _course_ we’re getting you some things. We want you to be comfortable, honey. Right now we don’t even have anything to transfigure.” Which is sweet, but confusing, because first of all, he has no idea what that means, but also because they’re being so _nice_. The Miss Goldsteins, especially the blonde Miss Goldstein, don’t make sense. He doesn’t understand why they’re doing this.

“You can call us by our names, you know,” the blonde Miss Goldstein says, a twinkle in eye and a smile in her voice, but Credence still feels bad.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes on the floor at their feet. He rubs the insides of his arms against his hips, just slightly. It must look awkward, but he always looks awkward. He tries not to think about it.

“Nothing to be sorry for, darling,” Miss Goldstein, _Queenie_ , says, which is sweet, but also a blatant lie.

“We’re leaving after lunch. Going to a _no-maj mall_ ,” she says, like it’s the coolest thing in the world. Which it’s definitely not, because magic is real, which _holy shit_ , but Credence sort of understands her excitement. He hasn’t been to a mall in a very long time. “Jacob’s coming, too,” she adds. “To help and all. We’re taking his car!” Credence doesn’t know how all seven of them will fit in the car that he’s pretty sure seats five people, but he doesn’t question it. That would be rude, after all.

Miss… Queenie makes them grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch. And he means she _actually makes it_. Like, she makes the bread, somehow, in midair in less than ten minutes, and she makes the soup from scratch, too, and it’s probably the best thing Credence has ever tasted. Except for maybe everything else Queenie’s ever made. He wishes he were hungrier, because he can only make himself eat half a sandwich and a little soup, and he feels so bad about wasting the food that they make him, but he’s not hungry; he never really is.

After lunch Chastity insists on doing the dishes, which makes both the Miss Goldsteins and Mr. Scamander raise their eyebrows, but Credence understands. He retreats back into his corner of the guest room for a few moments of quiet before he has to go outside, and it’s only then that he realizes that he doesn’t have anything to wear.

Or, okay, he does, obviously, but it’s what he’s been wearing for three days straight now, except for when he changes into the pajamas Miss Tina somehow created out of her own clothes. He still feels bad about taking her stuff, but every time he tries to give them back to her she glares at him. The Miss Goldsteins are terrifying.

But his clothes are getting sort of filthy, honestly, and he wants to change, but he can’t, because he has nothing to change into. Except then Queenie walks in with something that looks suspiciously like a stack of clothing in her arms.

“I took these from Newt,” she says, dropping the pile onto one of the beds. He can’t wear something of Newt’s; Mr. Scamander will hate him.

“Nonsense,” Queenie says, bright and airy, and Credence really needs to be more careful; she can hear what he thinks. She unfolds the clothes and holds up a pair of grey slacks.

“You’re almost exactly as tall as Newt,” she says, more to herself than anything. “Could you stand, honey?” she asks. He does immediately, crackling knees and all. He can feel his cheeks tint pink. She winces in sympathy.

“Everything should fit well enough without any work, but it’s no trouble if you don’t like it. I’m sure we could find something else,” she smiles at him. He doesn’t know what to say to that, because these aren’t even his clothes; he wouldn’t take _more_ from Mr. Scamander, or from her or Miss Tina or anyone. They’ve already been so nice. Miss Queenie is so nice.

“Aw, sweetheart,” she gasps, dramatically throwing her hand to her chest. “You flatter me. Get changed, honey. We’re leaving in a few.” She flutters out of the room, which shouldn’t be possible but somehow is for her, all flowing satin and sugar and curls.

Credence steps towards the bed, wishes his hands weren’t shaking, and picks up the pants, crooked fingers fumbling the smooth fabric. (He’s never had piano hands, not like Chastity or even Modesty; Ma punished him for that, too.)

He checks over his shoulder to make sure the door is locked before he undoes his belt and stumbles out of his own pants, pinstripe and ill-fitting. When he slips them off his legs are so _cold_ ; he’s always cold. He unbuttons the shirt that’s barely even white anymore, too, and leaves it hanging from his bony shoulders. He turns toward the mirror, Miss Queenie’s, he’s sure, and stares. The shirt is too big and only makes him look smaller. He slides it off his gangly arms and tosses it onto the floor.

He immediately feels awful. He lurches toward the clothing he left unfolded, picks up the shirt first, and redoes the buttons. He folds it the way Ma taught him, with the buttons down the center, then grabs his pants. He folds those too and when he stacks the dress shirt on top, he feels his chest loosen slightly.

Stepping back in front of the mirror he keeps his eyes trained on his feet. He doesn’t want to look at himself, but he does, also. His eyes trail up his pasty body, slowly: knobby knees, then too big boxers, hanging loose from his hips and so black against his almost translucent skin (he can see the veins across his thighs and up his arms, vaguely wonders if that’s bad, but he decides it’s probably fine, and it’s not like he dislikes it, anyway), his patchwork torso, his too-there ribs. He crosses his arms across his chest, cold and embarrassed.

His hair is slightly too long in the back, he knows; even just a week will do that. He stares into his eyes and only sees dark and he sighs, turning away. He walks back over to the bed, trailing his fingertips along the smaller lines of his forearms; he can control that, at least.

Shaking hands and all, he pulls the pants up. They’re too loose when he buttons them, but barely; they hang a little too low on his hips and he can fit too many fingers between his skin and the waistband, but they fit. He’ll have to put his belt back on and it bothers him more than it should, but they fit. He lifts a black and yellow striped sweater from the bed and tugs it over his head. It’s somehow both soft and scratchy on his skin. He puts his black blazer back on over it. He thinks he might look ridiculous, but it will have to do.

After double checking that he isn’t leaving a mess, he walks back to the living room and kitchen. The others seem to be waiting for him, and he feels a rush of shame. If he didn’t always take so long to get dressed, like a _girl_ … But then Miss Queenie starts looking at him funny, so he pushes the thought from his mind. Now is not the time, he knows. (Except it never is, and it never will be.)

Despite the strange look, Miss Queenie jumps to her feet, clapping her hands together. Credence, Chastity, and Modesty wince as one and Miss Queenie shoots them an apologetic look. She gives Credence a once over and nods. “Absolutely dashing,” she tells him. Miss Tina rolls her eyes but smiles at him, still, so he thinks that even if he looks ridiculous, it’s okay.

“Are we ready?” Mr. Scamander asks, standing up as well. Without waiting for an answer Miss Queenie whisks Credence out the door, the others hot on their heels. The two of them step outside first, and there’s a split second of _cold cold cold_ before Credence’s shoulders sag slightly and he breathes in the fresh air. Miss Queenie looks over her shoulder, then quickly back to Credence.

“It’s just Queenie,” she winks at him, voice low and close to his ear. “And just Tina and just Newt. None of those formalities here.” She laughs, then, big and loud, and the others come bursting through the doors. Miss Queenie, or just Queenie (she asked, he doesn’t want to offend her, it’s Queenie, just Queenie) leads them towards a car just as small as Credence had been expecting.

She climbs into the passenger seat first, and Credence watches as she leans over, gives Mr. Kowalski a light kiss, then turns to the backseat. There’s a flick of her wrist and a spark of what Credence only supposes is magic and then Tina’s ushering them in. Credence slides in first, in time to see Queenie slipping her wand back up her sleeve. She winks at him, again, and he realizes how inordinately roomy the backseat is.

Newt gets in after him, then Modesty, then Chastity, then finally Miss Tina. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but not really, and Credence is once again absolutely blown away by magic. He makes eye contact with his sisters across Mr. Scamander, Newt, and they’re just as impressed as he is, all wide eyes and wonder. Mr. Kowalski greets them, starts to say something, and Credence really wants to listen, he does, but it’s already getting to be too much and he’s not sure how he’ll survive the day, really.

The car pulls away from the curb and Credence leans into the door, relishing in the cool, smooth plastic, even though he’s cold himself.

They get a good parking spot, all things considered, and Tina does a quick scan of their surroundings before they pile out of the car. They walk inside, Modesty first, still too young to understand how lovely the Miss Goldsteins and Mr. Scamander and _everyone_ is being, still all missing teeth and excitement. Mr. Kowalski and Queenie are behind her, holding hands, and then the other four, with Credence lagging just the slightest bit behind.

They stop in front of a map. Credence hasn’t been to any mall, yet alone a mall this size, since he was seven, tops, and he knows he wouldn’t be any help in deciding where to go; he looks around at the surrounding stores, more fascinated than he’d like to admit.

There’s a bookstore just across from him with a boy standing outside it. He’s fiddling with his phone, hunched over slightly, not as much as Credence always is, but still all light denim hair and crooked shoulders from this angle. Credence has never seen a boy with hair that color; he thought only girls were allowed to have hair like that, and Ma, Mary Lou, he guesses he should call her, didn’t like that, anyway.

The boy looks up from his phone, scanning the building for… someone (a girlfriend, probably), and his eyes meet Credence’s. Credence has never seen a boy so pretty.

And that’s the only way to describe him, really; he’s beautiful. His hair is so _smooth_ and somehow sticks up and falls into his face at the same time. Even from here Credence can tell that his eyes are blue, like _blue_ blue, like Caribbean cruise, blue raspberry candy blue. And his lips are the color of cheap drugstore bubblegum, and Credence hates that that’s what he thinks of, really, he does, but they’re a dusty pink and they look so perfect against the boy’s pale face and his dusting of stubble and Credence wants to _kiss_ him. So badly. He’s beautiful and when he sees that Credence is looking at him, he winks. Which, _fuck_ , is really hot, for one thing, and Credence has never had _anyone_ wink at him before, except for Queenie, yet alone a cute boy, and he doesn’t know what to do; he just wants to kiss him.

Except that would be wrong, because kissing boys is wrong, like wearing dresses is wrong, and growing his hair out is wrong, because _Credence_ is a boy. And even if the guy with the foggy hair is probably the prettiest boy Credence has ever seen, it’s _wrong_ , and Credence is not gay, he’s _not_.

But he is, and the boy is smiling at him now, and Credence can feel his ribcage swell, but it’s _wrong_ , and he shouldn’t be thinking about this boy this way, because the boy’s not doing anything, he’s just _standing_ there, looking like that, and Credence is the one who had to make it all weird like the fucking _fag_ he is.

He hears Queenie gasp softly from the other side of Tina, and he doesn’t know if she’s been listening, but it doesn’t matter, because she could be, and he needs to _stop fucking thinking_ or she’ll _know_ , and she’ll tell everyone and they’ll kick him out, because it’s not like he’s even worth _anything_ , but if he could just _shut up_ and stop thinking about how much of a faggot he is it would be _fine_ and she wouldn’t know, and if he wasn’t such a vile and disgusting freak and if he wasn’t such a fucking _faggot_ —

“I need to use the restroom,” Queenie announces, and she’s still all smiles and bubbly curls, but Credence feels like she _knows_ , somehow, which is his fault entirely; if he wasn’t so gay this wouldn’t be a problem in the first place. He just needs to _shut the hell up_ and stop thinking because it’s _wrong_.

“And so does Credence,” she adds with a laugh that sounds almost natural. It makes Tina look up anyway. Her eyebrows draw together, just slightly, and the rope in Credence’s gut goes slack, because Queenie _knows_ , and she’s going to hate him. She must _already_ hate him.

Queenie hooks her arm through his and it looks almost normal, but he can feel the tension in her biceps as she bounces them towards the bathrooms, and this is _all his fault_ , and he should have just died— and _SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOOD LORD, SHE CAN READ HIS THOUGHTS HE NEEDS TO SHUT. UP._

Queenie opens the door to a family restroom and locks the door behind her, first with her fingers and then with magic, which is really the same thing if Credence is being honest, except Queenie’s fingers, her whole hands, really, are shaking. It’s almost imperceptible, not drastic, just a slight tremble as opposed to the six point one earthquake Credence is experiencing because he’s a fucking _baby_ and a goddamn fag.

She turns towards him, and he can feel her eyes baring into him even with his own fixed on the grimy tile, and she knows, she _knows, she knows_ , what the fuck was he thinking? He needs to be more careful, and stop being so fagg— and just _STOP_.

Queenie sighs. He doesn’t look at her. He doesn’t think he can.

“Credence.” She doesn’t sound mad, but she does sound upset, and Credence thinks that’s just as bad. “Credence,” she says again. He glances up at her through his bangs and she looks… Well, he doesn’t know what she looks, but it’s not good. He drops his gaze back to the floor.

“Credence,” she starts again, like she can’t think of anything else to say, except he’s never seen Queenie at a loss for words before, so that can’t be it. “Credence”—and that’s the fourth time she’s said his name, but this one sounds different—“Is there something you want to tell me?” And there isn’t, there _really_ isn’t, but he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. So he shakes his head almost indiscernibly and hopes she decides to drop it. (He knows that goes farther than wishful thinking and into some kind of drastic prayer, but magic exists, so maybe God does, too.)

“Honey,” she sighs. He wishes she would just get it over with, because he’s going to start crying if she keeps being so nice. “Honey, I need you to look at me,” she says. It takes almost a minute, but he finally raises his eyes. Queenie is crying, which, okay, makes no sense, unless she’s that that _disgusted_ —

“No,” she sobs. “Credence—” She takes a deep breath, squeezes her eyes shut tightly. When she opens them again she looks ready, determined.

“Credence, you are perfect. Newt and Tina and Jacob and I all love you. So much. And so do your sisters. I know you think you don’t deserve it, but you do. And I know you know I am many things, because everyone is, but one of those things is bisexual. I’m bi and there’s nothing wrong with that. I have no problems with it. It’s a part of who I am and, honey, that’s okay. No matter who I fall in love with, it’s wonderfully and perfectly okay.”

(Credence feels like he’s going to pop, or disintegrate, or _something_ metaphorical like dirt or smoke because there’s no way they won’t hate him. There’s no way Queenie is telling the truth because she’s _perfect_ , basically, and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s _wrong_ , Ma always said, except Queenie says it isn’t. She’s never lied to him before; he doesn’t know what to think.)

“Tina’s asexual, so she doesn’t want to have sex with anyone, even if she loves them, which works out just perfect, cause neither does Newt, except he’s also bi, and he could fall in love with a man or a woman, though he _is_ pretty in love with Teenie, right now,”—and Queenie manages a small laugh there, but it’s too wet and it sounds more like a sob anyway—“whether he wants to admit it or not, and it’s _okay_. It’s more than okay.” Queenie takes a breath.

“And there is nothing wrong with you. _At all._ No matter what. You are a wonderful young man and you have been through so much and it’s _so_ unfair and I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry, honey. But I need you to know that there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , wrong with you, or with anything you feel. It’s okay to think that boy is cute, because, honey, he _is_ , and it’s okay to want to kiss him.” Queenie pauses for a moment. She seems like she’s about to continue, but Credence starts _crying_.

And honestly, it can barely even be described as crying; he’s full-on sobbing, at least, and he would have collapsed on the floor if Queenie hadn’t caught him. He’s mumbling apologies into her shoulder (for everything, but especially for crying on her dress, which is beautiful), and she keeps telling him that it’s okay, that he doesn’t need to apologize, but he _does_. And it’s not like he can make himself stop, anyway.

Queenie’s going to push him away any second now, he’s sure. She’ll probably even hit him or something; he deserves it, after all.

“Credence, honey.” He looks up at her, and she’s crying too, except she still looks like a model or a goddess or Helen of Troy and Credence knows he looks like a mess; he’s never been a pretty cryer and he’s not particularly good looking to begin with, so compared to Queenie he must look an absolute wreck. Queenie laughs softly, and it almost actually sounds like a laugh this time; still sad, but she’s stopped crying.

“Neshomeleh,” she starts and, okay, he has absolutely no idea whatsoever what that means, but it sounds really sweet. He doesn’t know why she’s being so nice to him; he doesn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t even _be_ here.

“It's what my mom would call Tina and me. It’s Yiddish,” Queenie tells him, which means that she’s in his head, which he knows she can’t really help but it still makes his blood freeze in his veins. She pulls away from him slightly, holding his shoulders at arm’s length as she tries to meet his eyes. He wants to look at her, because he knows she’s mad at him and avoiding her gaze will only make it worse, but he _can’t_. He’s pathetic.

“Credence, I know I can’t make you stop thinking that way, but honey, I want to. You’re beautiful, and there’s not a damn thing wrong with how you feel, and it’s heartbreaking that you think there is,” she whispers.

He’s pretty sure that’s supposed to make him feel better, but it does the opposite. He should have been more careful, and now he’s upset Queenie; Queenie, who has been nothing but wonderful to him and who does not deserve this kind of bullshit. None of them do, especially not after what he did. He hurt so many people and he doesn't deserve to be here with such kind people.

He doesn’t deserve to be here at all.

He should have died, in the train station. He deserved to. He hurt so many people and even before that he was useless. He should have died before the train station. He should have just fucking killed himself when he had the chance; if he wasn’t such a fucking _coward_ , he would have done it before, before he was living with Tina and Queenie, and before he had people _watching_ him and trying to take care of him and before he had to steal Newt’s razor to shave because they only gave him one and he took that apart the night he got it and all the blades are already getting too dull to do much more than break his skin—

Queenie gasps, loudly this time, and falls back on her heels, dropping his shoulders. He’d forgotten she was there. He’d forgotten she was there and now she’s crying again, and he should have just kept quiet, it shouldn’t be that hard to control his fucking thoughts and now she _knows_ , she knows _everything_ , and he needs to stop thinking but he can’t, he can’t, he wants to die, he needs to _SHUT UP_ , he wants to die, his fingers slip under his sleeves and he doesn’t even mean to start scratching, he swears, but he can’t help it, he _can’t_ , he just wants to die, he squeezes his eyes shut, he needs to shut up, he needs to fucking _shut UP_ , he wants to _die, he wants to fucking DIE, HE DOESN’T DESERVE TO BE HERE, HE SHOULD JUST KILL HIS PATHETIC FAGGY SELF_.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers (he wants to die). “I’m sorry, I can’t— I’m sorry.” He’s crying now, but he wouldn’t be if he were fucking dead like he should be, he’s so pathetic, “I’m sorry. I can’t stop it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I’m Sorry.”

“Honey.” He can barely hear Queenie over the break in her voice and it’s all his _fault_. He feels her grab his wrists, gently, not like Mr. Graves— _Grindelwald_ —ever did. “Credence. I think today might not be the best day for shopping,” she says. He can hear her trying to smile but even with his eyes closed he knows it’s forced. She takes a deep breath.

“Okay, I just need to…” she trails off. She’s silent for too long and he opens his eyes. She looks like she’s only half there. “I just need to find Tina,” she says. “I don’t want to— I _can’t_ leave you here. I need to… I wish I had one of those no-maj… What are they called? Self-phones? Oh, cell phones. I’ll just have to find her,” she mumbles. She goes stone still and Credence watches, fascinated, as she scrunches up her nose. Nothing moves for over a minute, then:

“Tina’s on her way,” she tells him. “Newt and Jacob are taking your sisters out for lunch, then a movie.” Credence’s heart drops through his stomach. “Oh, no. Don’t worry, honey. She told them you were sick, not feeling well. You don’t have to tell them anything you don’t want to, but you do have to tell me and Tina. Please. We just want you to be happy.” He feels awful. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s way more trouble than he’s worth.

He hears what he thinks is a muffled incantation from outside; the lock clicks out of place and the metal door flies open, revealing an out of breath Tina. She barely has time to slam the door closed behind her before she starts talking.

“Are you okay?” she asks Credence. He doesn’t answer within the next two seconds (he wasn’t doing well anyway and he doesn’t like loud noises, like slamming doors; he can’t help that he freezes up), so she turns to Queenie. “Is he okay? What happened? Are you okay?”

“Teenie.” Queenie looks at her, all hard eyes and tight lips. Tina looks back at her, jaw just as set. Tina deflates, just the smallest bit, after a minute.

“Okay, fine. We’ll go home first. Sorry for caring,” she mumbles. Credence feels a swell of something that is somehow both guilt and happiness. Mostly guilt. “We can just apparate from here,” she says. “Do you want to take him or should I?” Queenie laughs, sort of; she’s still mostly tears.

“You take him. I’m all…” She gestures to her face, makeup tracks and all. Credence feels another stab of guilt. “Oh, honey, it’s fine,” she says to Credence, then, “I’m worried I’ll splinch him. I’ll meet you at home.” She gives Credence another sympathetic smile and then she’s gone, leaving only Tina and himself.

He can’t meet her eyes; he can’t even make himself look at her chin. He feels awful, but she doesn’t say anything about his steady focus on the bathroom floor. Instead she takes his arm.

“This might not be the _most_ enjoyable thing in the world,” she tells him, voice softer than he’s ever heard, and then they’re moving. He thinks they are, at least. Everything goes dark and he feels pressure on his ribcage and his knees feel like they’re about to pop out of their sockets and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he’s going to hurt someone, he can’t _breathe_. And then he can again, and he opens his eyes and he’s in the Goldstein’s living room, and the tension in his chest lessens a bit while his throat tightens.

They know.

Or, Queenie knows, but she’s about to tell Tina, if she hasn’t already, and he doesn’t know what to do. They’re going to kick him out and, okay, he can deal with that, but they’re taking care of his sisters, too, and there’s nowhere else for them to stay. They don’t deserve to have no one, not like Credence does.

He’s sitting in the armchair to the right of the sofa and he doesn’t know how he got there. Both Goldsteins are on the couch, so he’s confused when he hears something moving in the kitchen. (If his first instinct at an unfamiliar noise is a surge of irrational fear, then that’s his business. And Queenie’s.)

It’s just spoons, though, stirring three mugs of what Credence assumes is cocoa, since Queenie always seems to be making it, and he’s amazed by magic all over again, because he just traveled at least a mile in seconds, and now the spoons are stirring on their own accord. Magic will never cease to amaze him, he’s sure, but what’s more amazing is that the Goldsteins use it for such small things, and that they use it for such small things for _him_ , like it’s not a privilege or a reward for when he’s especially in pain or especially willing or especially quiet like Mr. Graves—Mr. _Grindelwald_ , Credence needs to remember—always did.

Queenie flicks her wrists, just slightly, and the spoons stop stirring. The mugs lift themselves up off the counter and swoop through the air, somehow with no cocoa spilling out of them. Tina reaches up a hand to catch hers, never taking her eyes off Credence, and Queenie maneuvers hers to the side table, but Credence has never been good at sports on a good day (and today is not a good day), and he’s honestly more than a little overwhelmed; the ceramic mug flies into his head.

It’s more of a nudge, really; it doesn’t hurt, but Queenie’s eyes still go comically wide and her hand still flies to her mouth. Credence is absolutely mortified, except then the mug bumps into him again, into his shoulder this time, and he feels like he should go ahead and grab it.

It’s not until he’s already taken a sip and settled his hands, mug and all, back in his lap that Queenie seems able to speak. “I’m so sorry, honey,” she says, and she sounds it, but she must know he doesn’t mind; it’s only embarrassing that he somehow managed to get hit with an inanimate object. He knew he was clumsy but this is getting ridiculous.

“Oh, good lord, Credence!” Queenie says, throwing her hands up dramatically. “I sent a steaming mug of cocoa careening into your head! By accident, mind you, but that is not your fault. This is getting a bit ridiculous, sweetheart.” His face burns slightly, he knows he’s tinted pink now, but he also knows she wasn’t being mean. He’s not sure Queenie really _could_ be mean.

“Oh, honey, I can be ridiculously mean. Not to someone as sweet as you, but just ask Tina’s ex boyfriends,” Queenie says, somehow winking at both him and her sister. Tina’s face goes dark red, without her permission, Credence thinks, but she rolls her eyes and laughs, anyway. Credence almost wants to ask what happened, but it’s none of his business, and he’s not going to be some nosy kid butting in where he’s not wanted. He almost thinks Queenie’s going to say something to explain (to make him feel better), but Tina does, instead.

“It mostly wasn’t that bad. Just some yelling and insults that hit _extremely_ close to home. But one guy I dated when I was nineteen only wanted to go out with me so he could sleep with me, which was totally ridiculous and unlucky for him, all things considered. He didn’t like how it played out, though, and he got more than a little pissed. He got violent when he was angry, apparently, but he only got one hit in before my little sister was there, hexing him—”   

“Which even then I knew was absurd,” Queenie cuts in. “Because besides that she’s always been the tough one, and even though she wasn’t an auror I knew Teenie could protect herself.”

“Anyway, he works in some pub now, and he still has a nose two sizes too big, so glad I got out of that one,” Tina laughs. It’s Queenie’s turn to roll her eyes. Credence thinks Queenie’s proud of what she did, and he doesn’t blame her. He doesn’t know what to do, though, and he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to, or allowed to, smile or laugh or anything. He ends up sort of grimacing into his drink, and he hates himself for it, but it’s too late now, he guesses.

There’s a few moments of almost-silence where the only sound is the ticking of a clock Credence didn’t know existed and Tina sipping cocoa for something to do. Credence can feel the mood drop by degrees.

“Credence,” Tina finally says, and he knows what she looks like (mouth turned down and eyebrows pulled too far up, too close to her hairline) even with his eyes on his fingers. “You know this isn’t okay.” It’s not a question, and for more than a second he thinks she’s talking about the other thing, the queer thing, and scenarios flash through his mind; at first he doesn’t realize that most of them are memories. He thinks Queenie might realize first, actually, and he hates that she can see this.

He hears her voice in his head (which he didn’t know she could do, for one thing), and it says, “No, not that, honey. Not that.”

“We don’t want you hurt, and it doesn’t matter if the person hurting you is your mother, or a dark wizard, or yourself. We can’t let you keep hurting yourself, Credence,” she says, and he doesn’t look up, but she sound so much like she did almost a year ago, in the church, when his mother was still alive and she’d only just started beating him on his palms, too. She sounds safe and nice, but he doesn’t know how to stop this.

He realizes, belatedly, that she’s waiting for some kind of affirmation that he at least heard her. He tries to nod, but he ends up jerking his head in a sort of spasmodic shrug. He’s messing everything up, he knows.

He glances up at them as surreptitiously as he can and he watches as they look at each other. Both of them seem at a loss for words and he feels so _bad_.

“It would help us if we knew why you did it, Credence, but we’re not going to make you share anything you don’t want to. Okay?” Tina asks. Credence tries another shrug-nod. Then it’s quiet. He feels like he should say something. He should just answer their question; it’s not that hard. They must already think he’s a bumbling idiot or a psychotic lunatic or some combination of the two, it would only help to explain himself. He should at least explain that it’s just him that’s so messed up, his sisters are better. He should just explain himself; it shouldn’t be that hard.

“I.” Which, okay, is not how he was hoping that would go, but it’s better than nothing. (It’s really not, but Queenie and Tina are willing to count it as a victory even if Credence is not.) He wants to look up at them, he knows he’s being rude and he wants to see how they react, but he doesn’t think he can do this while watching them watch him.

“It just… helps.” And, wow, that was great. A top notch explanation right there. Really eloquent. “It makes everything less…” He doesn’t even really know what he’s trying to say, but he shakes his hands out in front of him as a sort of explanation. “So much. It makes everything less jittery and cold and fast and more solid. That sounds dumb,” he adds, mostly to himself. He glances up at Tina and Queenie, and they’re both nodding like he doesn’t sound like a complete buffoon, and really he just wants to make them happy, so he continues.

“It helps with the, the feeling stuff, and it was— I could control it, so it was better than Ma; it was different. And I deserve— I hurt a lot of people, and even before I was… Sometimes I wasn’t home and Ma wouldn’t… Or she would hurt Cassie or Modesty, too, and they didn’t… They shouldn’t… That shouldn’t have happened. So it’d be for them, too. And I did such awful things and I—” he falters. He has to swallow around the lump in his throat, which he wasn’t even expecting to be there, but it is and he thinks he might start crying, which would be absolutely the _worst_ thing. “I hurt, I killed _people_ , I deserve it. It’s fi—”

“No.” It’s close to a shout and Tina is towering over him and it makes him flinch. Cocoa sloshes from his mug and spills on his lap and he almost relishes in the burning pain before Queenie’s magicking it off and back into the mug. The mug moves from his lap to the table beside Queenie’s but Tina is still standing, fists clenched, and he doesn’t know what to, but he’s so _sorry_ , he is.

“Tina,” Queenie says, quiet and soft but firm. “You’re scaring him.” And that’s all it takes for her to dissolve back into something more calm and stoic, for her to sink back into the couch and for her fingers to loosen their grip on each other.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and it takes Credence a minute to realize that she’s apologizing to _him_. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that, he should be the one apologizing, so he ends up going for another shrug-nod and Tina sighs.

“Credence, it doesn’t matter what you’ve done. You don’t… I’ve met a lot of bad witches and wizards, people much worse than you both in damage done and intentions, especially intentions, and not one of them deserves to feel the way you do, and neither do you,” she tells him. She seems defeated, or at least as defeated as Tina Goldstein can get. (Credence is pretty sure it’s not very defeated. She seems like probably the strongest person Credence has ever met, and definitely one of the most badass, but he’s not going to say that.)

The wind blows outside and the windows rattle, just slightly, in their frames, and only then does Credence realize how _cold_ he is.

“Honey, do you want to come sit on the sofa with us?” Queenie asks, eyes somehow softening even further. “I promise we won’t bite.” And her eyes are twinkling like she means it, and the answer is yes, like so much _yes_ , because he wants nothing more than to hug them, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do that, or if maybe they don’t like being hugged, or maybe their disgusted by him, or maybe Queenie’s just being nice, or something, except then she and Tina scoot farther apart. Tina smiles at him like he’s not some storm cloud and nods at the newly empty space beside her.

Slowly, and he can hear his joints creak as he does, he gets up and moves the two feet to the couch. He lowers himself onto the seat. There’s a split second of complete and utter tension, in him, only in him, and then Queenie’s pulling him, icy fingertips and all, closer to her, and Tina bridges the remaining gap between them and this is the warmest he’s felt in ages. He’s so embarrassed, and he doesn’t know why, but it only grows stronger when he remembers Queenie can hear him. He tries to stifle it, but it’s still there, and he feels like it’s going to continue to be, so it’s almost definitely a losing battle.

For a second he wonders if it should feel different, less platonic and more…more whatever his Ma wanted, having two beautiful women hugging him. And then, almost before he’s even done thinking it, there’s a ridiculous wave of guilt and he wants to die, because that was just _awful_ , he shouldn’t even try to think about them like that and he’s just… Awful. If he were just _normal_ and _straight_ , or at least somehow less faggy… He hates himself all over again, because he knows Queenie can hear him and he knows she’ll be mad at him for thinking like that, for using words like that.

But he feels Queenie’s spider across his back, anyway, and then a few seconds later it’s: “Tina?”

“Hmm?”

“Tell Credence it’s okay if he’s queer,” Queenie says, soft a smiling, but still sad. He feels Tina tense beside him. She starts to sit up straighter and seems to think better of it.

“Of course it’s okay if you’re queer, Credence,” she says. She sounds almost heartbroken, but that doesn’t make sense. She pauses, doesn’t breathe for a few seconds, then says, “Is that… Do you also cut yourself because of that?” And honestly, it’s not the question that makes Credence’s ribs contract and his fingers seize up, he’s just never heard it out loud like that before. He feels something rise in his throat and he thinks he might start crying again, but he swallows it down, or tries to.

“I guess. It’s not, it wasn’t a good thing. Ma would—” He stops. He doesn’t think he needs to continue. There’s a few more minutes of quiet.

“We’re going to have to tell Newt. And Jacob, I suppose,” Tina says from his left. Credence feels like he can’t move for a moment, but he knew this was coming if he’s being honest. “You don’t have to tell your sisters, but it only makes sense that all the adults know, or it’ll be harder to help you get better.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. No one’s ever really offered to help with _anything_ before, yet alone with something this big and this much his own problem, but Tina says they’re helping him like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how they’ll even help; it’s not like he’s going to bother them with his dumb problems, but he more than appreciates that they’re willing to try.

“No, you’re right. You sure as shit won’t bother us with your dumb problems,” Queenie exclaims, leaning away from him so she can try to meet his eyes. “Because your problems aren’t dumb, and talking about them will never bother either of us, or Newt, or Jacob, or anyone else that loves you, but you will talk to us, honey. It doesn’t matter how late or early it is, or if we’re at work or asleep or on a date, if you need us, if you want to hurt yourself, or even if you don’t, you should tell one of us. I’ll know if you don’t,” she adds, and it’s almost a threat, but it’s not really.

“You’re sure I wouldn’t be bothering you?” he mumbles. Tina snorts.

“Don’t think you could even if you tried, honey.”  



End file.
